


Winter's Weary

by cat_77



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the sherlockbbc_fic prompt of <i>“I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.” </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Weary

“Do I even want to know?” Usually John resisted saying such words aloud, but this time they blurted out before he could stop himself.

He had just arrived home from a long day at the clinic, as much snow sticking to his boots as stuck in the woollen cap he wore. There was a bag of takeaway from the shop down the street in one hand and a bottle of brandy he intended to warm and sip at in the other. An indulgence, yes, but the relentless cold and snow made him justify the expense as a curative. If either Sherlock did not get a new case soon, or he did not become drunk enough to wallow in front of the telly for the majority of the upcoming weekend, both were likely to go mad and do serious harm to each other and the woodwork. Given that the criminals of London were apparently taking a holiday until the weather warmed to mere freezing levels, brandy it was for the foreseeable future.

Before him, though, sat a sight he did not expect to see and made him check the bottle to make certain he had not taken a pre-emptive sip or three and, if so, was it truly just the liquor or was there something added to make things that much more surreal: Sherlock sat huddled in one of the arm chairs, wet hair plastered to his forehead, nose bright and as red as his rosy cheeks, the duvet from his room wrapped around him while his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. Across from him sat Mycroft in a near identical situation, only the duvet appeared to be one from Mrs. Hudson’s stash if the pink florals were anything to go by.

Sherlock blinked up at him with an air of innocence that seemed alien to his normally sardonic features and replied, “I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.” His voice was harsh and heavy and sounded as if the cold had already taken its toll, but the words were simple and said with such a forthrightness to make John once again question his sobriety if not his sanity.

John’s first instinct was to reach for the Lemsip. His second instinct was to offer some of the brandy. His third, and the one he eventually went with, was to chuckle, “Excuse me, could you repeat that?”

Sherlock cleared his throat to do just that, but was interrupted by Mycroft, who sounded about as well off as his brother at this point. “He built a snowman. Given that he attempted to make it anatomically correct and provide a true skeletal structure beneath, I thought it best to remove it prior to Scotland Yard making an appearance,” he explained.

“And the knocking down?” John asked. His supper was growing colder by the moment, but he could not resist the urge to get the full story out of the two suddenly sheepish looking men.

“They had a bit of a tussle, they did,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice sounded from the door way. “Went at it like two schoolboys, really. Sight to behold.” She carried in a tray of hot sandwiches and a small metal flask. She took one look at the bottle in his hand and her face lit up. “Oh, that will be much better than the bit of whiskey I had left downstairs; should cure them right up!” she smiled.

“I...” John tried, but knew it was a lost cause before he even began. “Why don’t I just get some glasses for everyone then,” he sighed in defeat.

“That’s a good boy,” Mrs. Hudson commended as she doled out the sandwiches. “When you’re done, see if you can talk these two into changing out of their wet clothes before the catch their death,” she added just as he reached the kitchen.

“They haven’t changed yet?” he asked, but even his own head answered that one. Of course they had not; both were too damn stubborn for that. He peeked back out and, sure enough, there were little puddles of water forming on the carpet around sodden stocking feet. He could only imagine the state of the chairs beneath the duvets.

“I have nothing that will fit anyone of Mycroft’s... stature,” Sherlock said calmly, though it was clear he wished to say something far more cutting. The sniff at the end was oddly endearing, yet pathetic.

“My aide will be here soon enough with a change of clothing,” Mycroft waved off the concern. “Shall I have her bring another bottle?”

It did not answer why Sherlock had yet to change, though John was fairly certain that was just his own stubbornness. The man was a genius and, self-preservation instincts or no, even he would have to understand the foolishness of sitting around sopping wet from the cold just to piss off his brother.

As Sherlock began to list the fattening effects of excessive alcoholic drinking, John removed a jar of something he could not identify from the microwave and heated up his supper. While that was going, he found four fairly clean glasses, and then a fifth for whoever was unlucky enough to join them. It was not exactly how he had intended to spend his weekend, but it was close enough to do for now.

Mrs. Hudson appeared at his elbow, offering him a fork for his food and a tray for the glasses. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I took pictures.”


End file.
